Title:
Without a Sound
Pairing: Tristan, Gawain/Galahad
Rating:
R
Summary: Tristan watches. Tristan knows. And Tristan
wants what he cannot have. But one can always dream.
Dedication:
eudaimon,
with love.
A/N: As payment for the gorgeous layouts and
generally being a wondful person. The request was: "Tristan,
anybody else, hurried, secret." My first try at something of
this nature: double drabble (200 words) and as sexual as I've ever
written.
His breath comes in short sharp pants, eyes squeezed tight shut, swallowing his moans of pleasure. No noise. He bites his lip, drawing blood, futilely trying not to make a sound. No one can hear.
Hurried and hushed. Silent and secretive.
Someone might find out. Someone might know.
The whimpers from the clearing just beyond the tree he was slumping against gradually get more frequent, more needy. He grips himself harder and strokes faster, images of what, or rather, who, lay tangled together on the ground so close, and yet still so far, pulling him closer and closer to the edge.
So close. He was so close.
One stroke. Two strokes.
Breathless whispered pleading. Two names muffled against each others lips.
Three strokes.
An image. Arching backs, sweat slicked bodies, intertwined tightly, eyes locked, filled with adoration and completion, flushed and sated.
One last stroke.
His back arches, his eyes snap open, wordlessly mouthing two names – the same two names – and he sags onto the ground, gasping.
"...'love you, G'wain." Completely content, relaxed, blissful.
"I love you too, Galahad." Tender, loving, possessive.
Tristan allows a single tear to fall, silently, unguarded. For once, he doesn't notice the eyes watching him.